


The Letter

by Leela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Stilinski Family Feels, a dash of angst, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his eighteenth birthday, Stiles receives a letter from his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> **Betas** : thrace_adams, aislinntlc  
> .  
> I got this idea in my head and it just wouldn't go away, so I ended up writing this.

My sweet Stiles,

You probably squirmed when you read that, doing that little flap of your hands that always makes me want to capture them like a butterfly. Or maybe you're smiling, just a little bit, and thinking that I'm a silly old woman. At least that's my hope.

Don't be crying for me, sweetheart. If you're reading this, I'm beyond all the pain and the ugliness of dying. And my fondest hope is that you're happy and loved, even without me, because I'll never stop loving you whether I'm alive or dead.

But that's not why I'm writing this letter or why I'm going to ask your dad to give it to you when you're eighteen. There are just some things you need to know about my family, and I can't trust your dad to tell them right. I love him, almost as much as I love peanut butter with smushed raspberries — and, yes, I'm laughing at that silly old joke too — but he's sometimes too literal, too objective.

And I'm still avoiding the subject. Okay, deep breath, and here we go, starting at the beginning...

You weren't named after your grandfather because we hate you. Let's get that sorted out first. You were named after him because I could feel the same spark of magic in you that my father had. I really wish you could have met him, to have had him train you and help you find the joy in your magic.

Your spark's probably coming to life now that you're eighteen. It's some kind of magical puberty, according to my father, your grandpa. Well, he said that it could happen earlier, under times of war and stress but, my darling, I don't think or maybe more like I really really hope that it hasn't happened to you already. The Hales have kept Beacon Hills so quiet and so safe for many years.

Anyway, back to your spark. It's the thing that makes you who you are, and it really is magic. If you can believe, if you can reach down into yourself and touch the strands of it, you'll know just how much you can do with it. I know how difficult it is for you to sit still, sweetheart, but you need to do that. You need to close your eyes and breathe in and out, slowly, deliberately, and let your mind sink down into the center of yourself, and you'll see a rainbow of colors. 

At least that's how my father explained it to me, and how it was written down by all the men and women in our family who were emissaries. Once you've forgiven me for not helping you through this, read the book that your dad gave you with this letter, okay?

So an emissary. That's what you are. Or what you can be if you want. 

And emissaries work with werewolf packs.

Yes, werewolves are real. If you don't believe me, just talk to Talia Hale, okay? She'll help you with this. She promised me that she'd come find you the day after your eighteenth birthday if I'm not alive to help you through this.

And, no, your dad doesn't quite know for sure but he suspects. Or at least he knows there's something that isn't quite right with the Hales, but he's also pretty much agreed to leave them alone as long as they don't cause trouble. 

Because, yes, the Hales are a pack of werewolves, and they could use your help. Their current emissary, Deaton... well, let's just say that I've never trusted him enough to let him know about my family. Be careful around him, Stiles. Learn whatever he can teach you but don't trust him with your soul. He'll use it for his own ends, just like that sister of his.

Oh god, my baby boy, my beautiful crazy adorable Stiles, I'm so sorry I'm not there for you. I want to be so much, you have no idea. I want to watch you discover the world I came from, the world I had to give up to be with your dad (and he was worth it, every single minute of every single day, believe me). 

Please forgive me for not being there to help you through this.

And read the book. And talk to Talia. 

And live your life to the fullest. Find love, and hold him or her tight and close, and feel the joy because there's nothing like it in this world.

I love you! Always and forever. No matter what.

Mom

~0~

Stiles smoothed the letter over his pillow, running his hand over the words, trying to feel his mom in them. He sniffed, long and loud and seriously wet, but he didn't bother wiping his eyes until a tear fell on the page, right next to one of the smeary bits that was probably one of his mom's tears.

Then he grabbed his other pillow, the one he only ever used to prop himself up for reading, and he buried his face in it and cried. Rocking back and forth, clinging to the pillow like he'd once held onto his Smurf blanket, he leaked all of his pain into it. But when he was done, the pain was still there, wrapped around his heart and soul. 

Scrubbing his hands against the comforter to dry them, he picked up the letter and read it again. And again. And again.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, he folded the pages carefully, making sure to use the same lines as his mom had and not to create new creases. Then he picked up the book, flipping through page after page of handwriting, cramped and sprawling. He read bits here and there, skipping from one thing to another, one emissary's story to another's, wanting to take it all in at once. All the information that Stiles didn't know existed but always knew he wanted, and almost as precious as the letter he tucked inside the front cover.

His family.

His family of fucking emissaries. 

His fucking family of fucking emissaries who'd known about werewolves.

His fucking luck.

Screaming, Stiles threw the pillows across the room, knocking shit off his desk, and he thumped his hand on the bed and resisted the urge to break everything in his room.

"Stiles? Son?"

The book and its letter clutched to his chest, Stiles flew across the room and into his dad's arms. His hug was tight, his touch familiar, and his normal ordinary strength everything that Stiles needed. Even the slight pain of having the book and Stiles' fingers caught between them felt right.

"She knew," Stiles said into his dad's shoulder and the stupid damp spot on his shirt. "Mom... she knew about werewolves and the Hale pack and everything, and Grandpa was an emissary too, and the whole family, and she," he hiccupped. "Dad, she _knew_."

His dad ruffled Stiles' hair and sighed. "Why am I not surprised? Shouldn't I be surprised?"

They stood like that for a while, minutes or hours or maybe just seconds, before his dad said, "I knew about the Hales. She and Talia, they were friends of a sort, meeting for coffee every once in a while. I..." he sighed again. "I could have asked, but she'd left her family for me and I didn't want to hurt her any more than I already had. And later... it was just too late."

"It's okay," Stiles said, pulling back to check on his dad's expression, because it was okay, even though it really wasn't, and he didn't know what else he could say to make it better. Then, because he had to say something else, he added, "She asked Derek's mom to help me."

His dad nodded. "Talia would have done that. She was a good woman, cared about her family. Other people too, but she would have done anything for that family of hers."

"Of course she would. She was the alpha."

"Like Derek."

 _Yes_ got stuck in Stiles' throat, and then blurted out in a single garbled syllable followed by a spate of words. "Like Derek so much that he's not an alpha anymore because of his sister." At his dad's raised eyebrow, Stiles snuggled back into the hug and said, "That bi... witch made her sick, Cora. That's why she was in the hospital, and then there was Peter, who is just an ass, but he had an idea and he totally didn't even have to talk Derek into doing it. Derek just did it and let Cora suck on all his alpha powers until she was better."

"Permanently?"

"I don't know," Stiles said, frowning. "I mean Peter didn't say... but he wouldn't would he, because he's Peter."

Pulling back, Stiles stared down at the book. "What if..."

"You need to go," his dad said, because he was totally the smartest. Except for Stiles, of course, and Lydia, who was so far beyond smart it wasn't funny.

"Go!"

Stiles did, after giving his dad one more hug.

~0~

He was at Derek's, banging on the loft door, before the thought crossed his mind that Derek might not be home.

Except he was, opening the door and giving Stiles that impatient _speak or I'll slam it in your face_ look. 

Stiles ignored it and pushed past him. As soon as the door was closed, he said, "We have to talk."

"Why were you crying on your birthday? I thought you'd be out partying it up with Scott and the others."

"My mom," Stiles said, and then, "Your mom."

Pain flashed across Derek's face before he shut it down. Because Stiles knew what that meant, how it felt, he moved closer, right into Derek's space, and he hugged him. After a brief hesitation and an aborted movement, Derek's arms slid around Stiles' waist and he held on like he was drowning and Stiles was his life preserver.

"They knew each other," Stiles murmured. "Like friends and about the werewolves and everything. My mom, she left a letter for me." His breath caught painfully in his chest for a moment before he could talk again. "She said your mom would help me. With the emissary stuff and everything."

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I'm so fucking sorry." 

Derek said the apology into Stiles' hair, the movements of his lips and the flexing of his jaw thrumming through Stiles' skull, and that was not okay. Totally not okay.

Before he could change his mind, Stiles tilted his head in just the right way and he kissed Derek. It was just a little touch, with his mouth closed and all the words tumbling through Stiles buried in it, but Derek twitched so violently that Stiles had to move back, loosening their hug, so he could see him.

Derek looked wrecked. He wasn't crying, nowhere near, but if had been anyone else, Stiles would have sworn that the glistening on his eyelashes came from tears and not sunlight.

"There's a book," Stiles said, hitching the shoulder that had his backpack hanging from it. "A family book. Written by all the emissaries. With, like, information that Deaton has only ever teased at sharing with us."

Then he reeled Derek back in, and he hugged him again. 

"Happy birthday," Derek said. "I'm..."

"No." Stiles interrupted him. "You're not going to apologize again. Not ever again, okay?" 

"Okay."

The shock in Derek's voice made Stiles kiss him again. Harder this time, and with a bit of tongue because, damn it, Stiles was eighteen and that made it all totally legal. He was going to take advantage of that because Derek had only ever kissed him once before saying that he shouldn't, that Stiles was too young and it was too dangerous. And it wasn't, not anymore.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Derek kissed him back. He cupped Stiles' jaw with his hands, sucked on his lower lip, and sent shivers of goosebumps chasing each other over Stiles' skin.

"I'm your emissary," Stiles said, when he could breathe again. "Just so you know."

"But I'm not an alpha anymore."

Stiles flapped his hands. "So fucking what. You're my werewolf, and I'm your emissary. We'll figure the rest out later, with the help of your pack and mine, okay?"

"Okay."

They stayed like that, standing in the middle of Derek's loft, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, until the ache in Stiles' chest eased and he felt like he could bear to think about the future as well as the past.


End file.
